Fanboys
by Kandakicksass
Summary: -Viva La Bam  sort of - Ville muses about the fans, and one in particular. Mindless, cute drabble.


**Giggle. Short little… drabble, really. Just for your, and my, amusement.**

Ville Valo didn't like weird fangirls.

They were creepy and sticky and more often than not, wet in more ways than one. They were always either too skinny or too round, or more muscular than he was, or worse case scenario, smaller—and that was hard to do, which made them practically (if not literally) anorexic. They were always decked out in HIM merch, head to toe, squealing and shrieking about how gorgeous he was and how awesome the band was, and how they'd gotten his face tattooed on their asses like he was some sex symbol that they should worship like the god he was.

Which was flattering, really was, but he wasn't that kind of dude.

There was _always _something wrong with them, too loud or too quiet—and in the seventeen years he'd been playing music professionally, he'd learned that it was the quiet ones you had to look out for. He'd met one once who had a backstage pass who seemed very nice and meek, and once the meet-and-greet was over, he'd taken a nap in his dressing room only to wake to the girl staring down at him with a disturbing smile.

He was of the impression she'd been drooling as well.

He'd met one or two that were okay, who liked him for his music and his talent, who considered him inspirational—one or two out of thousands, which wasn't exactly comforting—but the majority were just plain _creepy_. He couldn't point that out enough. One word that described the whole lot.

Ville didn't like weird fanboys, either.

They were generally either better looking than him (and while several disagreed, he contested that it was an easy thing to do) or complete nerds… or skaters, and surprisingly there were a good deal of them. On them, he'd seen more "emo glasses" than he'd ever wanted to and just like the fangirls, they would be decked out, head to every single hairy toe, in HIM merch. Good for profit, bad for a fashion statement. A shirt or a beanie was always a cool thing… a beanie, shirt, flip flops, belt, belt buckle, and pants that had 'HIM' and 'Ville Valo' on them in Sharpie? Both overkill and a little bit unpleasant to look at.

Not that he wasn't flattered, of course.

What was even more disturbing is that a good deal of them seemed to be gay, and more than that seemed to have a crush on him (or obsession, depending on how you look at it) whether they noticed it or not. He couldn't say how many times he'd been molested by his male fans—the girls just screeched and swooned, but the guys? They had balls, literally. If he'd thought the girl who'd watched him sleep like a stalker was bad, there'd also been a time when he'd woken up—in his own home—with a completely nude Asian-American who had taken a very interesting trip to Finland with the sole purpose of doing what he was doing then. Ville was a little confused later when he was signing a poster for the twenty-four year old to hang in his cell wall.

Never let it be said that he didn't lead an interesting life.

There were a good deal of the fanboys that were all right, though—he'd met several that he could talk honestly with, that were calm and mellow and he could go drinking with them without worrying that they would come back to bite him in the ass for it later.

There was one fanboy in particular that Ville found himself rather fond of, actually. He'd been a little surprised to find him standing backstage one night after a particularly good show, wearing black jeans, skater shoes, and a HIM shirt that didn't look new like everyone else's. The man had a beanie on his head—free of heartagrams—and grin on his face that made Ville wonder for a second if he was on ecstasy. In the back of his mind, Ville mused that this one was just a bit adorable.

"I'm Bam," he had said breathlessly, holding out a hand, one of the new shirts in his other hand. "Bam Margera… I'm a skater?" Explained the shoes, at least, though not why such a cute, unusual little American skater was staring at him with this look of total adoration. "I was just… God, sorry if I'm bothering you, but I'm a huge fan. You're…" He seemed at a loss for words, though his cheeks turned a bit pink when Ville laughed in the nerdy way he normally did and hugged him, ignoring the hand that had still been extended between them.

"It's nice to meet you, Bam," Ville said in his (godly) baritone, and the brunette's eyes widened in worship.

It always amazed Ville, when he really thought about it, how he could wind up several years later, his naked body pressed against Bam's, listening as the skater slept. It was possibly the most wonderful feeling in the world, being able to lean down and press his lips to Bam's cheek and seeing the brunette open his eyes and roll slightly to yawn and smile sleepily up at him.

"Good morning, Ville," he would say and Ville would laugh quietly and kiss him properly.

"Good morning, kulta," he often responded, and together, day after day, they would face the world. Just before he got out of bed, Ville looked around him at Bam's room, at the posters of HIM, the pictures of the two of them together, the CD's, the "HIM dresser" as Ville liked to call it, and smiled.

No, fanboys weren't so bad at all.

**Eh, cute(:**

**Kandakicksass**


End file.
